A deeply introspective and sharply written novel about the weight of the past and the fragile nature of second chances…
A man reconstructs his life within the walls of a house both imposing and enigmatic in Levin’s excellent novel. Robert Fitzgerald sees potential in the grand, aging house with its ten-foot ceilings and sunlight-drenched rooms. More than a home, it is a promise: of reinvention, of meaning, of a new beginning. He carefully picks housemates to live with him. They are misfits, but in Robert’s vision, they are also a family of sorts, one forged by choice rather than blood.
The book is less a story about domestic life and more a study of belonging, failure, and second chances. Robert is no saint. His past is a collection of half-buried regrets, failed relationships, estranged children. His housemates bring their own complications. Dennis has this quiet instability about him. Gene’s breezy recklessness makes him a drifter. And Martina, despite her confidence, is looking for escape rather than connection. The house looms over the narrative. More than a setting, it’s a presence. Levin describes it with lyrical precision—the leaded glass windows that stream light, the attic thick with years of forgotten lives, the wooden face carved above the door that watches, expression frozen in a manic grin. If the book has any fault, it is that it resists easy resolutions. And that is also its strength. This is a novel that understands reinvention is never clean, that the past does not simply dissolve with a fresh coat of paint. The house may be a place of renewal, but whether it becomes a true home or merely another stopping point, is a question that leaves readers reflecting for long. A stunner.
Coming soon